For love of family, of nourishment, of design. For love of life.

Everyone has a story. It follows like a shadow, a silhouette. Here, I write ours.

It's become a story about less. And more. It's about long-term goals and right-now sacrifices, followed by right-now blessings. It's living smaller in order to live larger.

It's taking note of the days and marking down the beautiful (and sometimes crazy). It's happy and hard (life just is) and very, very true.

And it all happens in our 665 square foot home in the foothills of Wyoming's mountains. Yes, 665 square feet for the five of us, just built in 2012. Here, we learn, we love, and we live well . . . with less.

On that blistery-hot California day, a few calendars back, when I walked through a stuffy thrift shop in the northern Sacramento Valley, a splash of watercolor caught my eye, and there, nearly buried in the heaps was a vintage sheet set, so, so perfect. Except that is actually wasn't. The fitted sheet had been carefully stitched and patched up in three places where holes had sprung. Whole white linen covered the jagged edges, making new and useable what hadn't been. This woven & stitched watercolor story? It was mine.

And that summer day when I walked into that tiny antiques store in the Wyoming town, the one with the man behind the counter who said that he'd always liked old things, so one day he decided he was just gonna do it - opened a shop, to buy & sell what he loved. That store? Well, he had scooped up an ironing board along the way, just for me. I knew it as soon as I saw it over there in the corner, with its original label still, its beautiful wood, and squealy hinges.

These two simple things came together on a quiet, wintery afternoon. A vintage sheet cover for the antique ironing board (don't have to use a bath towel draped over anymore, hip-hip hooray), stitched up & cinched up tight.

Because every bit of life should be beautiful, right? Even the mopping, the sweeping, the dish-washing.

Hey, loves! Over the last couple weeks, I spent some time on the phone with Remodelista executive editor, Margot Guralnick, answering the great questions she asked about my advice for living a clutter-free life. She's taken our conversations, written them beautifully, and included them in Remodelista's Clean Living issue. I thought you'd might enjoy reading it today.

Read the rest at Remodelista. Also, have you ever wished you had a guide to help define what your passion, vision and purpose for life is, and then create steps to follow it? Check out the Upstream Field Guide, by Tsh Oxenreider. It may be just what you've been seeking to help you compose a simple life.

February does this to me every. single. time. I think I have a week to go in the month and BOOM, no more February. It's like tipping your teacup back for one last sweet swig and finding nothing there. Or, maybe it's like coming to the top of a staircase, expecting one more step, then finding last-second that one doesn't exist, and suddenly being caught in the resultant execution of a chunky, misfit (silly-looking) over-step onto the next floor.

You know what I mean?

Then, you have to recover a moment from the lack of steps, the lack of tea, the lack of February.

And quickly re-group for March, which is usually the month that winter and spring fight over. It's interesting to be caught in the middle of a fight for thirty-one days with your rubber boots on. You never know who is going to throw the next punch. Is it going to be sloppy mud, or rotten snow?

Either and both.

While all of that is raging outside, I'll have a pink amaryllis blooming inside (my first ever), and my orchid, too, which I've been waiting for these last twelve months. I'll enjoy them while I generally zip up winter and shake out spring in the little house. It's the best way to handle March, I've decided. Eradicate the dust bunnies, touch-up paint, sew new pillow covers, grow alfalfa sprouts - basically, thumb my nose at the fight outside.

It's what I'm thinking about as I trip out of February.

How do you handle the transition from winter to spring?

P.S. Yes. After having January's calendar page up for almost all of February, I've gone ahead and skipped straight to March.